


Blind Vigilantes Aren't My Thing

by Mauisse_Flowers



Series: Adventures in Self-Inserts. Or "Hannah's Worlds" [5]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Gen, Self-Insert, refusing to be a damsel in distress is a Thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 08:49:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11825244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mauisse_Flowers/pseuds/Mauisse_Flowers





	Blind Vigilantes Aren't My Thing

“Moving here was to get away from the crazy that is central Manhattan,” Hannah sighs, setting down the last box of her things (which were mostly books, don't ask). Noemi, panting after lugging most of their clothes up the stairs all day, nods, sitting on one of the many “Hannah’s books” boxes. Spot is asleep on the couch, old and tired enough to mind his own business those days. “Let's hope this actually works.”

“It's  _Hell’s Kitchen_.” Noemi points out, reaching out to rub Spot’s back. He rolls over in his sleep, letting out a particularly loud snore. “Keep our heads down, deny any offered drugs, carry pepper spray and practice SING daily, we should be fine.”

“ _You_ should be fine.” Hannah counters. “Not only am I white, I very clearly am Southern. And a stupid one, at that.”

“Like my Cali accent isn't gonna make them think I'm easy pickings? My only safe havens are the churches and their overflowing Catholic guilt around here.” Noemi crosses her arms. “And you're not stupid. You're an English teacher for crying out loud.”

“One who wanted to teach in another country.” Hannah mutters, moving to the kitchen to start dealing with setting it up. “Look how well that turned out. All I got was a third of my payments reduced.”  _And my ass shipped to Kansas. So I quit. Like the stupid person I am._

“Hey, at least you aren't working in New York’s busiest hospital.” The nurse rubs under her eyes. “Two 20 hour shifts with a five hour break between. I slept in the break room instead of coming to finish packing.” There's a brief pause filled by the squeaky  _rrrrip_ of duct tap being pulled from cardboard. “Sorry about that, by the way. I know it was only my shit left.”

“It's fine.” Hannah calls, voice vaguely grunty as she lifts some medium sized, assorted china and ceramic plates from the box to set on the counter and begin unwrapping from their newspaper. “You need the rest. I'm the one who can't keep a damn job here.”

“Mainly because of the giant green monsters and assorted crazy people blowing up the place.”

“Don't remind me.” Hannah pulls out the giant plates next, loudly grunt as she did. “I should have left this box on the floor.”

“Then you'd make me do it.”

Hannah pauses, presses her lips together and does a poor imitation of Kermit by doing so. “You right.”

Noemi rocks herself up off the book box. “I'll start dragging boxes to specific rooms.”

“I want the windows facing the street!” Hannah yelps, somehow halfway through uncovering the giant plates. “Because–”

“The moonlight hits just right and the cars sound like home.”

Hannah flushes from where she is in the kitchen. She ducks her head a little, whispering, “Yeah…”

* * *

Now, you would think that, because they'd moved to where the Avengers had already fucked up, that they'd be safer. Apparently, however, karma liked messing with Noemi and Hannah.

Particularly, it seemed, the blonde who decided to quit being a teacher. After work at one in the fucking morning.

“Sure you don't want some?”

Staring at the guy blankly, she shakes her head in a mute “no.” Hannah doesn't reach for her purse. She doesn't make any sudden moves because, if her daddy taught her anything with the guns he owned and her uncle showed with his conceal-and-carry permits, that bulg partially covered by the hoodie was something to fear. She hated guns and refused to touch them (reminded her that her daddy tried to blow his brains out with a shotgun but jumping on his back stopped him from ruining the ceiling). Even more they terrified her in another’s hands.

He shifts closer, grin more sneer than cajoling. He slips the pills (she thinks LSD, might be wrong, she didn't do drugs even after the brief friendship with Tiffany) back into his pocket to free it. He holds his hand out to her like she should kiss his knuckles. “Then why not gimme your purse,  _sweetheart_?”

She couldn't do that. It had Spot’s pills for the next two months, her tablet, and the book she was rereading (and it was her favorite, too). Like a snart person, her wallet stayed tucked into the back of her pants out of sight. Hannah was also inclined with the sudden violent urge to rip the man’s throat out with her teeth for calling her sweetheart. She hated that nickname and didn't even let her parents call her it from how derogatory it felt.

Instead, Hannah shakes her head again. She should have shoved Spot’s pills in her panties like her aunt had joked about needing to do when Hannah called to say she was moving in with Noemi in New York. (“If someone wants your meds, they can't have them if they don't know you put them in your panties.” “That's disgusting and NY isn't  _that_ bad. It's just the media.”)

The man’s look darkens, hand twitching toward his gun. “Wanna run that by me again, sweetheart?”

Rage coils in her stomach. If Noemi was there she wouldn't have said the dumbass thing she next says.

“I'm not your fucking sweetheart, you fat fucker. And you're not taking my purse. My favorite book and my dog’s meds are in here.”

Sounds more like a snarl, and the guy does look surprised at witnessing five feet of rage, but he's more pissed with how his eyes narrow afterwards. He pulls out his gun and points it at her.

He doesn't undo the safety, finger on the useless trigger. “Gimme the goddamn purse, you bitch.”

Hannah takes in a swell of breath, curls her hand into a fist around her purse as she readied to sling it into his face. She starts to slide it off her shoulder, tense and already imagining how much momentum she'd need to make it really hurt and give her the ease to rip the gun away. Hannah hated guns but she hated bleeding out on a dark street corner even worse.

“I'll give you–”

The man goes down suddenly. She blinks at the red suited man a few feet in front of her now, looks down at the asshat who'd tried to intimidate her, and back at the man.

“Who the fuck are you?” She demands, still ready to use her purse as a weapon. She needed to start carrying some heavy shit in it again. Maybe a literal brick this time.

“You don't know me?”

“No?” She makes a face, she knows she does as she crosses her arms. Sneer on her lips, lifted brow, creased forehead. The epitome of “should I give a shit?”

His eyes are covered. He must be blind or have x-ray vision and be doing it for the “ _aesthetic_ ”. Hannah realizes she must sound extremely bitter and borderline bitchy if she does in her head. Maybe even hipster.

“Again, who the fuck are you?”

She sounds nicer now. Kinder. Still tired as fuck and ready to crawl into bed with her dog’s cold nose at the hollow of her throat, the familiar sound of car engines passing under the window as the moon calms her hurt soul.

“I'm Daredevil.”

“You're another hero?” She asks. “X-ray vision or some shit?”

Daredevil smiles despite the situation. It's kinda tired and a fraction crooked. Hannah thinks he should have left by now and hopes this isn't like a DC Comic where the hero meets the love interest before she's kidnapped and killed for loving the hero and vice versa. Hannah doesn't have time for that. This guy doesn't have time for that.

Hannah decides to forego getting an answer. She wasn't playing Iris West or Lois Lane or whatever to this guy. If she had to be a character, she wanted to be Dinah, Diana, or Selina. And still not be connected to this guy.

“Nevermind. Thanks for the save.” She moves to walk around him, waving as she goes. “Have a good night. Bye, dude.”

He's gone, she can tell when  his presence disappears. She doesn't care. But she doesn't feel eyes on her the rest of the way home, up on the rooftop, and it pisses her off.

This isn’t going to happen


End file.
